Wrong Number 1

I was wandering aimlessly around Pike Street Market in Seattle at about 3:30 on Saturday afternoon when my cellphone rang.

"Hi, this is Mark...what's up?"

A female voice, sounding a little flustered and confused, responded, "oh, ummm, hi, ahh, Mark. This is Danielle. I'm trying to reach Allison. But, unless you're her new lover or have stolen her cellphone, I think I must have the wrong number."

We spent a few seconds trying to sort out the confusion and eventually determined that she had dialed 9887 instead of 9778 and she apologized and started to hang up.

But she hesitated for a second and I said, "is anything wrong, Danielle?"

"No..." she said quietly, sounding slightly embarrassed. And then she just suddenly added, "it's just that, well, you have the most incredibly romantic and sensual voice. I've always loved men with deep voices."

I laughed and, right out of the blue, decided it would be fun to tease her so I dropped my voice a few octives lower and crooned, "thanks, Danielle. What's your most intimate and secret sexual desire and how can I make it come true?"

I expected her to gasp and hang up.

Which, of course, she immediately did as I chuckled to myself quietly and resumed my unguided tour through the fish market.

But about an hour later my cellphone rang again.

I answered it and this vaguely familiar female voice simply blurted out, "I've always wanted to have a man I didn't know give me a massage while I was completely naked and blindfolded."

And then she quickly hung up.

I walked around the streets of Seattle aimlessly for about the next twenty-two minutes with an erection that could trip a horse, muttering to myself, staring at the stupid cellphone and cursing the damn US West call-blocking feature.

About five o'clock in the evening the cellphone rang again.

A much more rational Danielle took a deep breath, apologized for what she had said earlier to me about her quirky massage fantasy, explained that she didn't know what had come over her and was highly embarrassed and asked me to forgive her since she didn't know me from Adam and she didn't want me to think that she was an incredibly rude person or a sex-crazed maniac.

I assumed that she had simply gone home and masturbated until she wasn't feeling as aroused as she was when she blurted out her fantasy to me and that now she was trying to make amends for her earlier indescretion. So I told her that I certainly understood, forgave her completely and then, when she was sufficiently off balance, changed stride suddenly on her by casually adding, "of course, I'd still be happy to make your secret little fantasy come true whenever you want."

Her reaction was simple.

She gasped "what!!??"

As dispassionately as it's possible to sound when you're about to explode, I explained that I'd always had the same fantasy. I'd always thought it would be fun to give a woman a massage under those exact circumstances, blindfolded, no conversation between us, everything she'd specified. Of course I was lying through my teeth to her because I'd never even thought of doing something like that but it did sound fun and, besides, the chances of it actually happening in this case were about five hundred gazillion to one so what the hell did I have to lose. I knew she'd never call my bluff even though, by now, we were clearly engaged in a game of Sexual Chicken that threatened to get gradually more serious.

But I'd misjudged her.

She raised my opening bet by giggling nervously and then taking a deep breath and asking coyly, "okay, Mister Smartypants, how would you go about it?"

I figured she was getting this brave because she knew she was still anonymous, so I said, "well, that depends on whether you live in a house or an apartment."

"A house. On Mercer Island."

"Well, then all you'd have to do," I whispered as seductively as possible, "is unlock your front door and put something yellow on it. That way, when I get there, I'll know that I'm at the right place. Then take off all your clothes, lay down on your bed and put on a blindfold. I'll walk in the door, lock it behind me, find the bedroom and without saying a thing give you a massage. It's just that simple."

There was sort of a stunned silence at her end for a few seconds.

Then I heard a few gasps and a very soft moan and she suddenly blurted out, "ohmygod, Mark, I'm so aroused that I'm actually thinking of doing this with you. There can't be any sex. No intercourse, no matter how wound up either one of us gets, okay? Oh, oh, ummm, that feels good. Unnn, unnnn. Umm, do you promise? No sex. And neither one of us can talk during the massage and you have to leave right after and we can never ever see each other ever again and that should be pretty easy for me since I'll have a blindfold on and never know what you look like anyway and, and, ummmm, but you have to promise...oh, oh, oh...ummm, no sex, okay? Absolutely no sex. Unnnnnn..."

I heard a few more gasps and then her voice just trailed off.

All negotiation, especially in sales, is a series of hurdles. One person sets up a hurdle ("it's too expensive") and the other person jumps over it ("but it will save you a lot of money in the long run").

Hurdle, jump, hurdle, jump.

This no sex thing was obviously her way of setting up a hurdle that was so great it would keep her from doing something she knew was a complete mistake and insanely dangerous. Because she'd read all the stories on Literotica she knew that the one immutable law of sex is that no man can give a naked woman a massage and not end up having intercourse with her. Especially if they're strangers. And, to complicate things even more, if the massage ever happened it would clearly be virtually impossible to muttle your way through it without talking, or at least screaming "oh, baby, oh, baby, oh, baby" or something like that five or six times. And, if that didn't completely shut the door on the whole idea, the final requirement about not seeing each other again certainly would. Of course they would see each other again. Or at least get married.

But, alas, now it was my turn to play.

"No problem. I do it all the time, Danielle, I touch naked women that I don't know all the time," I said with as much conviction and sincerity as I could muster. "That's what I do for a living, I'm a masseur. And if I ever accidentally run into one of those women on the street, I pretend not to know them. Besides, I'm good looking. I'm six six and handsome and I'm in perfect shape. I spend all day kayaking and mountain climbing and running through the forest with rabid dogs chasing at my heels. And I'm single. In fact, I'm so attractive and rugged and handsome that most of my female clients get so aroused when I'm giving them a massage that I have to leave the room while they masturbate. Almost all of them beg me to have intercourse with them. But I won't do it. I absolutely won't do it. And if you tried to turn a simple massage into intercourse, I'd leave your house immediately, too. So don't even think about it. I'm serious. If this is all a ruse so you can get me into bed, you're barking up the wrong tree."

Oh-oh.

I think that stunned her.

I know it sure stunned the hell out of me. Anyway, bye-bye hurdle. Of course, I just barely managed to get most of that diatribe out without choking on my tongue but this was definitely turning into an interesting conversation.

Obviously I wasn't going to go as quietly into that good night as she thought.

But, if anything, she was intense. After she recovered enough of her composure to talk again a machine gun volley of questions start flying from her.

"What's your real name?"

"Mark."

"You're really single?"

"Yes."

"Are you really six six and good looking and is your body absolutely perfect?"

"Yes, yes and yes. I look like one of those guys in the exercise machine videos."

"Oh, God, I can't believe I'm having this conversation. Are you, ummm, okay, well then, how big are your, you know, feet?"

"Huge. Size 14. But it doesn't matter because we're never going to make love anyway. I'll leave if you try anything fishy. And nothing you can do, screaming, shouting, gasping, moaning, begging, threatening to faint, even flopping around completely out of control on the bed from your six hundredth orgasm will convince me to have sex with you. Oh, and I can make it vibrate?"

"Make what vibrate?"

"My feet."

Suddenly there was a lot of uncontrollable giggling at the other end of the phone followed by, "six hundred orgasms, huh? Well, I've already had two while I've been talking to you, Mark, so...that means I have five hundred and ninety-eight left to go...okay, where are you right now, somewhere in Texas I hope...please, please be somewhere in Texas...please, please, please..."

"Nope, I'm on Mercer Island. In fact, I'm only a few blocks away from your house."

That sound you just heard in the distance was another hurdle falling. Of course, there were a couple slight complications. For one thing, Pike Street Market is nowhere near Mercer Island and I was in Pike Street Market. And, secondly, she hasn't told me exactly where on Mercer Island her house is yet, so how the hell could I be a couple blocks away?

But, by now, she was apparently so sexually intoxicated with the whole idea that none of that had dawned on her. Or she was ignoring it. All I can hear was some very deep breathing at the other end of the phone and a few low moans.

Finally she gasps, "five hundred and ninety-seven to go...unnnm, Mark, you've got me so aroused I can't think. Look, my name's Danielle but I think I already told you that. Anyway I live on Mercer Island Way. The street's only a block long. Now I'm going to hang up and, ummm, you know, masturbate or something. If I'm stupid enough to call you back in the next twenty or thirty minutes the only thing I'll be able to do is blurt out my street address. Otherwise, it's been fun talking to you."

Click.

Oh shit. I've got a half hour to get there and I know it's impossible. I hail a cab and almost scream "Mercer Island Way" at the driver as I jump in.

One minute, two minutes, three minutes.

"Run over the damn pedestrians," I shout. "I'll give you a hundred dollar tip if you make it there in less than thirty minutes."

The guy driving the cab spins his head around and looks at me. He knows where we are. He knows where we're going. He knows it's impossible. I might as well told him to start driving to the moon. But, what the hell, he decides that a hundred dollars off the books smells pretty good to him and he floors it.

Exactly twenty-eight minutes later we're sitting on Mercer Island Way and he says casually, "what house is she in, buddy? I figure it has to be a woman..."

"Damned if I know..." I mutter as I step out of the cab and hand him two hundred dollar bills. "Keep the change. You can probably use some of the money to get the blood off your fenders. Nice driving."

Okay. Now what?

I'm standing in the street in black Spandex bicycle shorts and a white T-shirt. This is a seriously upscale neighborhood. Guard dogs are barking and wealthy socialites and thier maids from Guatemala are staring out their windows trying to figure out if I look like a burglar. Or a rapist. Or just some idiot who's been foolish enough to think with his dick and now doesn't know what to do next.

The cellphone isn't ringing.

Another minute goes by. Nothing. Whew. Relief. I wasn't sure I had the guts to go through with this anyway so I start to leave.

Then suddenly the cellphone rings.

"4856. 4856. The brown house. I must be out of my mind...what am I doing...remember, no sex..."

Click.

Oh-oh. She just threw all her money into the pot and it's time to look at the cards. I've been bluffing with a pair of sevens. I figure she's got at least three of a kind or a straight. I look behind me and see the house. Am I really going to walk over there, open the door and give a massage to a naked, blindfolded woman that I don't know from Eve. She could weight five hundred pounds. She could have a wart the size of Texas on her butt or no teeth or a big boyfriend hiding in the closet ready to stomp me into the ground.

Besides, there's one other little problem: I'M NOT A MASSEUR!!!

I lied. I don't know hot oil from broiled fish. As far as I'm concerned, a Swedish massage is something you get in Stockholm. I'm so stupid about this stuff that I think a deep tissue massage somehow involves Kleenex.

"What the hell am I doing?", I scream quietly to myself.

Now it's my turn to take a deep breath.

I walk through the front gate and quickly move up to the porch.

"Oh shit, a yellow scarf's sticking out of the door," I mutter to myself as I panic and freeze. "What am I going to say if I don't go in and she calls my cellphone again? Sorry, I chickened out because I was afraid you were ugly. I'm not that cruel. I could pretend that I was color blind and couldn't tell which house was brown but she'd see right through that because she gave me the address. And then she'd be just as hurt. And I don't want to hurt her. Well, I guess I'm stuck. Me and my big mouth. Okay, here goes."

I smile and wave at the eight private security guards who are now staring at me from their beat-up 1975 Ford Escort as I open the front door and walk inside.

Great place.

Big.

She has to be a professional to live here, doctor, lawyer or a Microsoftie.

The whole house smells wonderful.

Like a woman.

I lock the deadbolt on the front door and move in the direction that seems most logical for bedrooms, trying to remember as much karate as I can in case her husband, her boyfriend or a big dog suddenly ambushes me. I can hear soft music playing upstairs.

"Hey, that's probably a clue," I think to myself as I quickly realize I'm totally clueless and begin walking up the stairs. When I'm at the top I turn right and glide through the first open door into a bedroom.

"OH MY GOD!!!"

The most incredibly beautiful, completely naked woman with a blindfold on that I have ever seen is laying very quietly in the middle of a massive round bed.

Well, okay, she's not totally naked.

And she is a little stiff.

In fact, she's trembling and there's a blue towel about the size of a postage stamp floating above her butt. Apparently she panicked somewhere between the last time she called me and now and realized that laying completely naked in front of a total stranger that you'd just invited into your house probably wasn't very smart. Of course, laying on your stomach with a blindfold on under an incredibly small towel somehow made everything better.

I think ostriches have already perfected that technique.

Anyway, I take a deep breath and, as I walk quietly across the carpet towards the bed, resist the temptation to stutter out, "hi, what's new, Danielle, and, oh, by the way, I'm scared, really, really scared because I've never done anything this overtly sexual before, especially with someone as gorgeous as you are and, besides, I really don't know what the hell I'm doing since I lied to you about being a masseur..."

But after all, rules are rules so I don't say a thing.

However, now that I think of it, once when I was 12 or 24, I forget which, I remember my Mom telling me something like, "okay, son, here's the only thing you'll ever need to know about sex. If a woman you don't know calls you up on your cellphone and asks you to give her a massage while she's naked and blindfolded, you probably shouldn't do it."

That was it. That was absolutely everything my parents ever told me about sex. And, at the time, it made absolutely no sense. In fact, I remember squirming around in my chair at the kitchen table after it was all over and muttering, "yeah, right, Mom. Like that's ever gonna happen. Can I go out and play now?"

The room has a few candles flickering and some sort of strange looking bottle is sitting on the nightstand by the bed. I figure it's a bomb.

She knows I'm here now.

And I know she knows I'm here now because I can hear her breathing change just before she tries to muffle the series of soft little screams she's now making by hiding her head completely under a pillow.

Too stupid to realize that she might be trying to send me a very subtle signal with her panicked shrieks, I pick up the plastic bottle, decide that it's not a bomb since I can't hear it ticking and quietly move a chair to the end of the bed by her feet.

And immediately discover that trying to sit down with an erection when you're wearing Spandex bicycle shorts is no simple task. It's like trying to fold up an umbrella in the dark with one hand.

But I finally manage to do it and suddenly realize that I'm just sitting there, shaking my head back and forth in amazement and staring at her body. She's about 5'8", 125 lbs, with tanned, athletic legs that are at least five hundred miles long. Her skin is flawless, her elbows are pressed against the side of her body, discretely hiding her breasts as she holds the pillow over her head with her hands. And her blonde hair is swept to one side, languishing across her bare shoulders. She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen and her butt is so perfect that I want to just bend over and start biting it softly.

I notice her trembling slightly. I'm sure she's trying to control it but I'm positive she wants to jump up and scream and run out of the house as much as I want to jump up and scream and run out of there.

But it's too late for both of us now.

Besides, I have the advantage of being able to see her. I already know she's beautiful. As far as she knows, I could be the Hunchback of Notre Dame and have a twelve inch dagger in my hands. I want to start talking to her, telling her it's okay, telling her she can take off her blindfold, telling her how nervous I am, but the rules are the rules, no talking, no sex, just a massage and then goodbye.

I stare down at her and start to panic. Does a masseur pour the lotion in his hands first or does he pour it directly on the patient, err, victim, err whateverthehell this woman in front of me is? And do professional masseurs' hands always tremble like this? And sweat?

"Okay, try to settle down and just pretend she's your old girlfriend Kate," I think to myself. "Ooops, can't do that. Way too much baggage there. Okay, just pretend she's your Mom. Yikes! Sister? Ain't got none. Oh shit. I'm runnin' out of women. Ann Kelly. Yeah, that's it. Pretend she's Ann Kelly, the most beautiful woman in high school. Of course, that was more than ten years ago but...ummm, we just won the game, I threw four touchdown passes and Ann Kelly sprained all the muscles in her back yelling and desperately needs a backrub. So she took off her cheerleading outfit and plopped down on the bed. Okay, ummm, why the blindfold? Why would Ann Kelly be wearing the blindfold. Ummm, she's shy. Yeah, that's the ticket. She's shy."

Author's Note: Of course, why a shy 16 year old girl would be laying on a bed completely naked is another issue but you try and think with a hard-on sometime while you're writing. Nothing makes sense! Now back to the story...

I pour a little bit of whatever mysterious concoction is in the bottle onto her right calf and she stops shrieking and moans softly. I just about explode it's so erotic but I bite my lip and put both my hands on the back of her calf and start rubbing gently. She immediately moans again and moves her left foot about six miles away from her right foot.

OHMYGOD!!!

Suddenly my eyes are not watching my hands. In fact, I forget that I have hands. In fact, I forget where I am, what time of day it is and whether or not up is down and down is up. All the blood in my body that isn't already in my penis starts rushing to my head. I feel faint. My heart suddenly bursts out of my chest and I can see it stuck to the outside of my T-shirt going thump, thump, thump. I stop rubbing her leg and just stare for a few seconds.